The Mirk and Midnight Hour
by LucyO'Gara
Summary: Far from her homeland, caught between duty and desire, Maeve is having very bad dreams. But nightmares aren't real...until they are. Maeve/Sinbad
1. Chapter 1

**The Mirk and Midnight Hour**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M  
Setting: Just after Season 1  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

She's having nightmares again.

What triggered them this time, Maeve doesn't know. It's often like this. Perhaps a passing word from a member of Sinbad's crew dredged something up from the cobwebbed recesses of her mind. Maybe it was a flash of emotion, lightning-quick but so familiar that her body remembers what her mind chooses not to. Possibly it's simply the heavy burden of guilt she always wears, made deeper, weightier, as she feels herself falling more and more for her sailor captain.

This must not happen. She has a job to do.

And so she fights. It should be so simple, she thinks, to tell her heart no. Sinbad is forbidden; all men are. She can't afford the distraction. It creates more guilt and she honestly doesn't know how much more her shoulders can bear. It roils her stomach, makes food impossible. And on the nights she's actually able to sleep, it plagues her rest with dreams—memories she cannot forget, can't bear to remember.

And so she's here, awake, on deck in the deepest hours of night. The wind blows off and on, sails flapping halfheartedly each time the breeze dies. The creaks and pops of the wooden ship, its slow, gentle rocking, are so familiar to her by now that they should be comforting. Should be, but nothing ever is.

Her brother is asleep somewhere up in the rigging. She can feel him, but is grateful for the respite. He's not happy with her, hasn't been since their last encounter with Rumina several weeks ago. Her failure to kill the dark sorceress isn't what's angered him, though. It's her inability to keep Sinbad at arm's length, the way the captain keeps finding excuses to touch her, to be close to her, and her apparent acceptance of his interest.

Were she honest with herself, Maeve would be forced to admit how much she cares for the blue-eyed rogue. As it is she lies, and tells herself the deception is necessary because Dermott is so often inside her head. What she knows, he knows, and letting herself feel this truth is just too dangerous. Dermott deserves better from her. He deserves the whole of her concentration, her devotion. She owes him this much.

Far aft, the crewmember manning the tiller coughs. The sound reaches Maeve in a still pocket of the night. They are the only two people awake, the only two people, it feels like, in the whole world. She knows he can see her, even with the waning moon; her skin is so pale that she's unmistakable. The crew know better than to disturb her, though, and this one is probably dozing as the still night passes. There have been no surprises, thankfully, since they left Skull Mountain a ruin—no harpies or water beasts, no unnatural storms, no dark magic that she can sense.

Just her dreams.

She has magic but not enough control; if she sleeps and the nightmares come, they spill over and affect other members of the crew. This is unacceptable, and so she remains on deck, awake, lost in dark thoughts instead of dark dreams.

Shifting her body and shaking the leg that has fallen asleep while she broods, Maeve stretches out full length on the deck. It's not comfortable and she won't sleep. Instead, she stares up at the stars, dim through a slightly hazy sky. They're not the same stars, nor in the same positions, she remembers from childhood. Looking at these southern stars makes her miss her island home so much that it hurts. It's not a fresh wound—she's been gone too long for that—but the ache is deep and hollow. She feels it when they enter a new city or town, the stares from everyone, the way they hold back a little further than with the men who look local, their skin ruddy or tan or coffee-colored, their hair and eyes uniformly dark. She's exotic, tall as a man and pale as a lily, with hair the color of flame. In the smaller towns and villages, probably no one has ever seen red hair before. Certainly they've never seen a woman like her.

In Maeve's experience, that means one of two things: people either get acquisitive or fearful. Many, many men have wanted to possess her. Others, often women and children, shy away. It isn't just the culture of the south, where women are meant to be neither seen nor heard, but a genuine fear of what she might represent. She is an outsider, and a warrior. This means she will never truly belong in this hot, dry, strange southern world.

Except with Sinbad.

His blue eyes show that, somewhere in his family's past, they had some truck with northerners. Maybe that makes it easier for him to accept what she is, or maybe it's just Sinbad. He didn't like her at first—nor she him—but even in the beginning he wasn't afraid of her. Nor did he demand sex, as so many men do, as if it were his right. For a long time he didn't touch her at all—not until mutual respect and friendship had solidified. It's one of the things she appreciates the most about him. Sure, he's beautiful and charismatic, but it's his humanity she holds most dear.

Slowly Maeve's eyes close. She won't sleep, she knows better, but she forces her body to loosen though she's anything but relaxed. She rocks with the motion of the ship, cajoling her body into the rhythm of the ocean, the incessant push and pull, ebb and flow, that the others seem to adapt to so easily. They all walk with it, sleep with it, breathe with it. With the men, it's unconscious and instinctual. Maeve can ape it, but she can't let go enough to feel it.

What she does feel is Sinbad awaken below. He falls back asleep after a few minutes; she wonders if he knows where she is, just as she knows where he is. This, at least, is instinct, deeper than magic, deeper than book-learning. She can't turn it off, this knowledge, which is a little disturbing but also somehow…comforting. He's part of her in a way no one else knows, maybe not even Dermott. It makes the way women throw themselves at him easier to stomach, because she shares a bond with him that none of them ever will. She's sure about so little in her life, but about this, at least, she's positive.

* * *

"Rashid tells me she was up all night again." Doubar's voice is low, meant to stay between himself and his younger brother. Maeve is too far away to hear anything but a shout, her head buried in a large, cumbersome book as the wind whips the flames of her hair around her head. Every so often she lifts a delicate hand to run through the riot of red-gold curls, absently pulling them out of her line of sight.

Sinbad watches, at once caught by her beauty and worried for her health. Something is troubling his sorceress-in-training, though she takes great care not to let it show. During the day even he's hard-pressed to find anything suspicious about her behavior, but after more than a week without sleep she's starting to slip. That's how long it's been since the night he stood the graveyard watch and couldn't help but notice Maeve's silent presence above deck. He's been keeping track, unobtrusive, trying to stay out of her business. She's not his the way the rest of the crew are, after all. She's signed no contract. Technically Dim-Dim is still her master and thus Sinbad's command over her is limited to what she will allow. It's…an awkward situation. Thankfully she accepts his authority most of the time now—unlike when they first met—but her fierce temper and independent streak return when she feels he's overstepping boundaries as captain of the ship. Taking her to task for not sleeping falls into the category of "overstepping," he's sure, so he's been hesitant to broach the topic.

"That's ten nights now." He runs the pad of his thumb over his lips, chapped by the constant salt wind, as he thinks.

"How does she manage it, I want to know." Doubar leans into the tiller, correcting their course against a sudden cross-breeze.

"She must be using magic somehow." Sinbad shrugs off the question. Maeve is strong and resourceful. How she's managed to go ten nights without sleep doesn't matter to him; he cares only about the reason for it, and the possible danger if she continues.

Doubar hems, spits over the edge of the ship, and rests against the railing. He's a big man—tall and big-boned as well as fat, with blunt, cheerful features. He wears a heavy beard and his hair has gone prematurely grey. Nobody would guess from looking at them that they're brothers, and full brothers at that. Sinbad is much younger, a surprise late addition to the family, and is their mother's child from his sharply defined, beautiful features, to his smaller, harder build. Both brothers share their mother's blue eyes—Doubar's almost grey, like an overcast sky, Sinbad's the color of the ocean. People fawned over their unusual eyes when they were young, and women still fall for Sinbad's bright blues. He knows he's attractive—fairer-skinned than many, thanks to a grandmother from Gaul, and his smile has rescued him from trouble both as a child and an adult. His pretty face seems to make no difference to Maeve, though. If anything, he thinks she likes him in spite of his looks, not because of them.

"Do you think it's time to talk to her about it?" Doubar's worried about their sorceress, it's clear, but he also knows butting into her business like this will create trouble. He's not a deep thinker like Firouz, their resident scientist, but they've all been together long enough to know this much.

Sinbad doesn't have a good answer to that question. He looks at the sky. They've been asea about three weeks, with only two short stops of less than a day to onboard fresh supplies. Five more days will finally bring them home to Baghdad, where they plan to take extended leave before setting sail again. He's looking forward to spending some time at home, except he's not sure it's safe for Maeve to go five more nights without sleep. And what if shore leave doesn't fix whatever's wrong?

"Firouz," he calls finally, and gestures to the scientist, who has been scribbling equations on a bit of parchment with a sharpened piece of charcoal. "I have a question for you."

Obliging as always, Firouz absent-mindedly sticks the charcoal in his pocket and walks over. "I've been observing changes in water depth," he begins, but Sinbad waves him to silence. He doesn't have the patience for one of Firouz's rambling explanations right now. Firouz is used to this and hushes.

"How long can a person go without sleep?" Sinbad asks, careful how he phrases his questions. Firouz doesn't know about Maeve's sleeplessness yet, and Sinbad prefers to keep it that way as long as possible. He trusts the scientist without question, but Maeve is an intensely private person and the fewer people who know, the better. "Can staying awake…do anything, you know, to you?"

Firouz tilts his head to the side, curly hair waving like froth across his forehead. "That's a good question," he says, eyes distant as he rakes through his stores of knowledge for anything helpful. "I don't know that anyone has experimented with the concept and come up with a definitive number."

"Some help science is," Doubar grumbles, but it's not a personal attack on Firouz and the inventor takes no offense.

"I can say definitively that missing sleep causes confusion, delayed reaction times, poor decision-making, dizziness…" He trails off, then barks a short laugh. "Not unlike the symptoms of too much wine."

Doubar joins in the laughter, but Sinbad's eyes flick to Maeve's figure bent over her book. As far as he knows, she hasn't shown any similar signs. As he told Doubar before, she must be using magic somehow to mitigate the effects of not sleeping.

"So, like getting drunk, not sleeping makes doing anything a little more dangerous," he says, making sure he understands the physician's explanation, "but it isn't dangerous on its own?"

"Not that I know of," Firouz agrees. "Why the sudden interest in insomnia?"

"Insomnia?" Doubar mimics the word.

"The technical term for an inability to sleep."

"Maeve was telling me about a curse that causes it." Sinbad lies easily, the words flowing from his mouth as calm as truth. "I just wondered how bad it would really be."

"It would be a torment, certainly." Firouz nods. "A constant desire for sleep, worsening with every night, with no ability to relieve it. But as far as I know it wouldn't kill you on its own. You'd die eventually from making a stupid mistake."

"From all that bad decision making." Sinbad frowns. "Does it get worse the longer it continues?"

"Of course. Just consider when you've had to spend a night or two awake."

"Yeah, I hear you." Sinbad slaps Firouz on the shoulder, thanking him, and the inventor wanders off with his parchment again.

"What do you think now?"

Sinbad turns to look at Maeve once more. She raises her head, and for an instant he wonders whether she can sense his attention. Instead of turning to him, though, she lifts one delicate, long-fingered hand to shield her eyes as she watches her hawk arc overhead. As always, it's the bird she turns to first, thinks and worries about—more than any human member of the crew, more even than herself. Her bond with Dermott is as mysterious as everything else about her.

"I think a ship is no place for confusion and delayed reactions." It's completely true, as far as it goes. "She could get hurt, or hurt someone else."

Doubar sighs. "I'll make sure we have plenty of buckets in case she sets the ship on fire again."

* * *

She's awake again—still. It's a soft night once more, warm as all nights here are, even on the open sea. Maeve sits near the bow of the ship, leaning against the railing, listening to the wind, the rush of water as they draw ever nearer to Baghdad. She hopes the distraction of the city will stop these dreams, make her able to sleep again, but she isn't sure.

Part of her wishes they were headed to Basra instead, that she might beg help from the sorceress Cairpra. She doesn't like asking for help, hates feeling beholden to anyone, but she doesn't know how much longer she can keep this farce going. Using magic to replenish her energy is a self-defeating ruse; she's managed to stay awake, yes, but she's so depleted that she can't conjure so much as a spark, let alone a fireball. She hopes they don't run into any trouble before this spate of nightmares ends.

Maybe she should leave the Nomad for a time when they reach Baghdad. Find a ship headed to Basra, go see Cairpra on her own. It's something she's contemplated many times during these dark, solitary nights. She has coin enough to buy passage, so that isn't a problem. Dermott would probably approve, too. But she just can't bring herself to commit to leaving Sinbad, even temporarily. Everything inside her balks. She tries to tell herself that he needs her—he gets in trouble so often, and has come to rely on her magic more and more as their trust and her skills have grown. In truth she knows that, in her state, she's a liability to the crew and not an asset, but still she struggles. The Nomad has become her home, the permanent members of the crew as close to family as she's ever had. The thought of leaving Sinbad, too, is…terrifying. What will happen to this bond between them, if he's so far away? Will she still know where he is, what he's doing?

Will he forget her?

She scowls and pitches a splinter of wood overboard. She shouldn't fear that, it's beneath her. But she does. There's so much fear in her, mostly fear of failure, but also of things she can't even name. This one, though, she can. She wants to be special to Sinbad, to mean something to him. Is that so wrong?

Maybe not for an ordinary girl, she thinks, but she hasn't been a girl like that for a very long time. Dermott needs her. She glances up, where her brother roosts in the darkness. She owes him so much, loves him so much. For him, she's sacrificed half her life. For him, she knows, she must be willing to give more.

Behind her, Sinbad scuffs his foot on the deck on purpose. She doesn't flinch; she knew he was awake and approaching. Her spine stiffens. She's been waiting for this discussion for a while.

"Nice night." He sits beside her without asking, but he's the captain and this is his ship. He's not too close, keeping enough distance to be polite. Maeve wishes he wouldn't.

She doesn't respond to his attempt at smalltalk, waiting instead for the real reason he's approached her. She knows perfectly well that she's not fooling him; he knows she's not sleeping. This bond works both ways, though she doubts Sinbad realizes it.

"Maeve," he says finally, "I'm worried about you."

"I'm fine." The rebuttal is automatic, and also a complete lie. She's falling apart and desperately trying to hold the pieces together. Her past, her desires, her brother's needs…all the secrets she holds, the fear of what might happen were they to leak.

"I'm sorry, Maeve, but you're not. When people are fine, they sleep. They eat."

"I eat," she protests.

"Less than Dermott, and that's not the point." He pauses, puts his hands behind him and leans back on his arms. It's an exaggerated pose meant to put her at ease, which she knows perfectly well. "Are you ill? Should we get Firouz to examine you?"

She favors him with a dark look, which he counters with a cheeky grin. "I didn't think so, but I had to ask."

They're silent for a while. Maeve thinks hard, but she can't come up with a good excuse that will alleviate Sinbad's concern. If she tries to tell him it's a magical experiment he'll respond, rightly, that it's not worth risking her health. Anything else he likely won't believe. She pulls her knees up and wraps her arms around them. She's not cold, she's never cold here, but it's comforting all the same.

After a beat, Sinbad shifts closer, hip to hip. His arm curls around her waist and he draws her close.

Unable to resist when he touches her like this—something Dermott hates—Maeve relents. Her body relaxes against his and she drops her head to his shoulder. She feels him press a gentle kiss to her hair and it warms her inside. "I liked it much better when you were afraid of me," she mutters, staring out into the darkness.

His chuckle vibrates against her cheek. "I was never afraid of you. In awe, maybe. Still am, if I'm being honest." His free hand rises, callused fingertips drawing a gentle line along her arm, her white sleeve bright in the dim starlight. "But even you can't keep this up forever. Maeve." The way he says her name, it's like she's lost somewhere and he's calling for her. Searching. She yearns to answer but she can't. She _can't_. "We're friends, aren't we? You can tell me anything."

She wants to tell him, give him everything he wants from her, but she's too afraid of the repercussions. "Your first point doesn't automatically prove the second," she says instead.

"Now you sound like Firouz."

"So go hold Firouz."

He laughs. "Thanks, but no. He doesn't smell as good as you." He kisses her head again, an oddly tender gesture.

They're quiet for a while. Maeve closes her eyes, drinks in how this feels, being held by hard, gentle arms, his body warm against hers. She's been more or less alone with Dermott for so long, and her body craves the contact of another person, another human body. Sinbad smells like the open sea and clean sweat, salt-fresh, male. For a moment, just a moment, her mind stills. The constant, gnawing fear calms. Peace isn't something she's used to, but she knows it when she feels it. Her self-control wavers and her eyelids grow heavy.

Just before she falls asleep, Maeve catches herself. Her body stiffens and she drags it, protesting, upright again. She can't look at Sinbad. Even in the dark his eyes are too dangerous. They make her think he knows things he shouldn't. "I was thinking I might head to Basra," she forces herself to say, staring out over the dark water.

"To see Cairpra?" He's watching her. She can feel it. "Okay. We'll need to resupply in Baghdad first, but—"

"No, Sinbad." It guts her to say it, to give weight and meaning to what was previously just a hated thought. "I didn't say we. I said I. There's nothing for you in Basra."

"There is if you're there." He's being deliberately obtuse. She flashes him her best irritated look, wonders if he buys it.

"I said no."

"And I'm the captain. You're a member of my crew, aren't you?"

It's a very dangerous question. She desperately wants to be—maybe even needs to be. But technically the answer is no, she's not. She belongs to Dim-Dim. She and Sinbad are united by the common cause of her master's rescue, but she's signed no contract. She is not a member of his crew, owes him no allegiance.

But she can't bring herself to say it.

His question goes unanswered and the night wind drifts between them. Silence swallows the Nomad as the night wanes.

"You can't go alone," he says finally, intractable, his own stubborn streak showing. He's serious.

"Then I'm not going."

"Can you sleep without her help?"

The challenge is too much for Maeve to bear. She stands abruptly, ending the conversation. "Good night, captain." Knowing she's retreating but unable to do anything else, she heads for her tiny cabin and firmly closes the door behind her. Above, she hears Sinbad curse.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Mirk and Midnight Hour**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M (language, sex, violence)  
Setting: Just after Season 1  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

Maeve doesn't leave her cabin all day.

"So…your talk either went great or terrible," Doubar says over breakfast.

Sinbad raises an eyebrow at him.

"Terrible. Right." He swallows a hunk of flatbread and date paste. "What now?"

Sinbad shrugs. "What can we do? I can't order her to go to bed."

"Wait, whose bed are we talking about?" Doubar snickers like a little boy.

Sinbad makes a face. In some ways, Doubar is as annoying as any other brother. "There was just a moment," he muses, recalling the unproductive conversation of the past night, "when she actually relaxed. I almost thought she might doze off, but she wouldn't let herself. She sat up and moved away, wouldn't let me near her."

"Maybe she just doesn't like you."

It's a question Sinbad has wrestled with often. Maeve runs hot and cold, her mixed signals jarring. He can't make himself believe she doesn't like him—not when he holds memories of her fiery kiss, hot and molten-sweet. It's more like something's holding her back. If so, she refuses to tell him and, once again, he can't order her.

Local girls are much simpler.

"She was so stiff." Sinbad's talking to himself, breakfast forgotten. He stares into the ubiquitous gloomy darkness below deck. "So wary. Almost as if she was afraid of something."

"That doesn't sound like our Maeve. Not now, anyway. I know she didn't trust us at first, but was she ever really afraid of us?"

The answer, of course, is no. Maeve is fearless-recklessly so at times-and she's never been afraid of him. Suspicious, yes. Disdainful, certainly. Not afraid.

"Do you think this has anything to do with our last run-in with Rumina?"

Sinbad tilts his head to the side, considering his brother's question. It has some merit. They destroyed the evil sorceress's lair, which was good, but they had not been able to kill the witch. Once again she'd slipped through their fingers. When they began their journey back to Baghdad Sinbad thought Maeve was fine despite the disappointment. Now he knows better, but is that the answer?

"I don't think Maeve will ever truly relax until Rumina is dead." He looks at his brother somewhat helplessly. "Whether that's the problem now, I can't say."

"That girl is certainly a mystery." Doubar grunts and pushes himself away from the table, helping himself to his brother's untouched bread as he goes. "Good luck, captain."

* * *

Maeve doesn't open her door for two days.

Sinbad isn't sure what to do—what he might even try. He can't order her to sleep, can't order her to eat. He could try to give her a watch on the tiller, but after Firouz listed the symptoms of sleep deprivation he doesn't really want her in charge of his ship. Things have been quiet so far and they're almost to Baghdad. He has no wish to take chances with his ship.

"How about telling me what's bothering your mistress, huh?" he cajoles Dermott one windy afternoon as the hawk alights near him.

He half expects the bird to answer, but Dermott merely favors him with a long, silent look before taking off again. Sinbad shakes his head. Even her hawk's upset with him.

That evening, Sinbad decides to try talking to her one more time. They'll be in Baghdad soon, thankfully, so if he screws up again they won't have to deal with the fallout very long.

No one's in the galley when he approaches her door and knocks softly.

There's no sound. For a moment he wonders if she's finally fallen asleep, but no. Silent as fog, she opens the door. Her face is blank; she observes him cautiously.

He holds his hands up, palms toward her, in a gesture of harmlessness. "I don't want to fight. I just want to talk."

"About what?" Her voice is dull, flat. The sleeplessness is finally getting to her. He can see the beginning of darkness under her eyes and there's something hazy in the way she looks at him, vague and very unlike Maeve. She's usually so direct, something he deeply respects about her.

Not today.

"It'll be Doubar's birthday while we're in port," he lies, "and I wanted your opinion on celebrations."

"That's Firouz's thing, not mine."

"Please?" He tries to offer a winning smile, which usually makes her roll her eyes and laugh.

Today her expression doesn't change. "I'm busy."

"Too busy for Doubar? Come on." He offers his hand, palm up, reaching, hoping she'll take it. She's so tired; he can see it in her stance, her eyes, the shape of her mouth. Sinbad's watched her for so long. He knows next to nothing about her, but he knows _her._ Her anger, her joy. How a cloak of sorrow looks when she wears it. Right now she's so tired he wonders if she feels anything else at all.

Maeve studies his outstretched hand for a long breath. Finally, as if in spite of herself, her own hand rises. Slowly, slowly it slips into his.

Relieved beyond words, Sinbad twines his fingers through hers. He can't help himself, and he raises their hands to press a kiss to the back of hers, smiling at her over their knuckles. Her answering smile is hesitant, unsure, but there. He leads her across the galley to his own cabin and latches the door behind them so they won't be disturbed.

His cabin is the biggest on the ship—the crew sleep in hammocks in the hold. Maeve's cabin is little more than a closet with a porthole and a bunk, and Firouz has use of the only other cabin when they have no passengers aboard. Here Sinbad has a desk and a bench, a bigger bunk, two portholes, and plenty of room for storage though he personally travels light. He pulls Maeve down beside him on the bench and fishes for a blank piece of parchment as if he really does want her opinion about Doubar's birthday. In reality they don't celebrate birthdays, and Maeve ought to remember this. It's just another clue to how exhausted she really is.

"I was thinking he should have something special," he says, filling the silence with innocent talk. "Maybe some of that good palm wine the caliph keeps for state occasions. I bet he'd give us a few bottles, since it's for Doubar."

Maeve makes a noncommittal noise. After a moment, to Sinbad's surprise, a soft, wistful smile touches the corners of her mouth. "If we were farther north, I'd hunt through the markets to find him some whiskey. That would make him happy."

"I've heard tales of this northern whiskey." Sinbad pauses his search for parchment. She's half-drunk herself on sleeplessness, which might make his scheme somewhat easier. "Is it really as potent as they say?"

She chuckles, a low, sweet sound Sinbad has missed badly. "Back home the men say, 'Best not let it touch your gums on the way down." She rubs her eye without noticing, but Sinbad does. He slips his arm around her waist, remembering that one soft moment of surrender several nights ago, when she let herself lean against him, let herself let go. Watching her carefully, he begins to tell a story about when he and Doubar were children. It's lighthearted, and he keeps his voice low, easy, as if nothing of importance is happening at all. As he speaks his thumb slowly strokes the fabric at her waist, a gentle caress unconsciously in time with the rocking of the ship. She's lost weight, which worries him a little; she doesn't carry any extra. Maeve is long, slim muscle and supple skin, tall, slender, and all female. Even were she to dress in men's clothes, no one could mistake her for anything but what she is.

Her eyelids lower and she blinks slowly, thick lashes like smudges of soot below her eyes. So beautiful, this curious woman, fierce and angry, yet delicate, vulnerable. He can sense the deep sorrow in her, the pain below the surface that keeps her at arm's length, stops her from trusting him fully. Oh, she trusts him with her life—that's been proven beyond a doubt. But she doesn't trust him with her secrets, her past. He wonders if she ever will.

Sinbad's story draws to a close and his voice flows easily into another, meaningless reminiscences of happy times with his older brother. He strokes Maeve's waist, watches her eyes close, open, close again. He's not being subtle, but she's too confused by sleeplessness to realize how she's being led slowly, inexorably, toward rest. It's what she desperately needs right now, and Sinbad is her captain. He isn't sorry at all about tricking her.

Her nodding head comes to rest against his shoulder. He continues to talk, voice smooth and low, caressing her gently with hand and words. He's not really used to being soothing but with Maeve it's as easy as breathing. He knows her in ways he doesn't entirely understand. It's inexplicable but undeniable. He presses a kiss to her forehead, inhaling the scent of her. She isn't heavily floral like other women—she's cedar and rain and woodsmoke, sweet and clean, not cloying. Sinbad loves it. He imagines this is the scent of her homeland: cold air, wet grass, fresh-cut wood. Rich and green and alive. Maeve is all these things, plus the fire at her heart. He kisses her forehead again, and knows immediately when she finally succumbs fully to sleep.

A large part of him would like more than anything to put her in his bed and stay with her, to watch over her, hold her, make sure whatever she's afraid of doesn't happen. His logical side wins out, however, and he carries her carefully into her own tiny cabin, places her on her bunk. Putting her in his bed is definitely the sort of thing that will make her furious—angrier than she'll already be when she realizes she's slept. So, though loath to do so, he settles her on her bunk, covers her with a light blanket, and leaves her to her rest.

"Sweet dreams," he whispers as he closes the door.

* * *

_A heavy hand clamps down on his shoulder. He's small and frail, and his bones nearly snap under the iron grip. He looks up into the face of a man who doesn't look like the men he knows: bushy dark beard liberally laced with threads of dirty grey, skin like dark oak wood, flint-hard black eyes over a large nose. The man towers over him, and the smells of raw fish and young whiskey are so strong that his eyes water. He can't breathe, and the hand on his shoulder squeezes tighter and tighter…_

_"Listen, child. You feel this?" The man's words are hard to understand. He does not speak the language well and his accent is thick and unfamiliar. The man pulls on a chain. His breath is sour, tainted with the fumes of alcohol. His eyes are bloodshot, his teeth rotting in his mouth. "Well?"_

_He coughs, tries to breathe, iron links pulling at his skinny throat "Let me go!"_

_The heavy hand lifts from his shoulder, but the other hand has already been drawn back and now swings forward. Knuckles connect with his face. He collapses instantly, hearing something crack, and blood pools in his mouth. A heavily-shod boot connects with his stomach, his ribs, the solid sweep of his sternum. He can't breathe, csn't scramble out of the way, can't do anything but wait for the blows to stop._

_"You listen good this time. That chain means I own you. You, little one, are mine now. Bought and paid for."_

_He can't breathe, but the spark of defiance inside him hasn't died. He tries to speak, but there's a sharp pain in his side when he tries to inhale, and the air will not come. Spots dance before his eyes. He can't even cry, but he shakes his head, denying the dark man's words._

_"Do not think you can defy your master. You will learn your place one way or another." The man pulls him to his knees by the rough iron chain, grabs his chin, forces his head up. "A pretty thing. You'll be worth a small fortune when I get you south. Marrakesh perhaps, or even Baghdad."_

_He cannot breathe, cannot answer. He pulls his head free and bites the man's dirty thumb._

_The dark man swears in a strange language. "If you won't behave, then so be it!" He hauls him to his feet again. "Time for your real punishment." He pushes the small, stumbling figure before him, half-dragging him away from a little fire and into the darkness of a wet, brambly forest._

_Pushed and supported by the looming man, he tries to breathe, tries to make his legs work correctly. He takes several shallow breaths, pain lancing through his chest at every movement. He swallows reflexively, his mouth full of blood, and the sudden warm liquid in his stomach makes him heave. He doubles over, vomits blood onto the dark, loamy forest floor. Nothing else comes with it, for there was nothing in his stomach to regurgitate._

_The man releases his collar. Without support he falls to the ground, the impact driving the breath out of him again. Vaguely, with a small corner of his dizzy mind, he hears the splintering sound of a branch breaking off a pile of deadwood. He can't move to get away. He knows little of the body and how it works, but he knows that something inside—perhaps several things—must be broken. He can only lay on his stomach, one arm bent painfully underneath him, the smell of blood and earth under his nose, as his shirt is lifted. For a brief moment he feels cold air against his exposed skin, before the first blow falls. The broken, splintered edge of the stick bites into his back, his buttocks, his thighs—again and again, small splinters of wood lodging in his flesh. He wants to sleep—wants the welcome numbness of unconsciousness to bear him safely away. It does not come._

_The blows cease. Barely conscious, sick with pain but unable to catch enough breath to cry out, he listens for the blessed sound of the stick finally dropping from that brutal hand. Instead, he feels the rough stick wedged between his knees, pushing them apart._

_"You need to learn your place," the man says, breathing fast, voice raw with exertion and—something else? He can't tell, but it terrifies him. The man's breath comes closer, and he feels coarse wool on the insides of his legs where the man now kneels. A broad hand comes up under his belly, forcing him up on his hands and knees, and a sickening feeling creeps into his chest as something large and hard pokes clumsily between his legs, searching for entry. He can't move, can't scream, but he shakes with fear. He hears grunting from the man behind him, then a moment of silence. The man pushes once, buries himself inside the too-small opening. He opens his mouth to scream, but he has no voice._

* * *

Sinbad is in the galley playing dice with Rongar when the first scream sounds.

It's a hollow, haunted cry; the captain is half out of his chair before it ends, bolting toward the hold where his crew sleeps. Rongar is just behind. They've made it past Firouz's cabin when the second scream erupts. The third, overlapping with the last, is Doubar.

They rush in to find everyone out of their hammocks, three men sleepy-eyed and confused, three pale and shaking.

"What's wrong?" Sinbad demands.

Rashid is on his knees; he lowers his head into his hands and doesn't speak. Salman creeps toward a bucket near the wall, skin gone green, and is violently sick.

"Doubar?" Sinbad can only hope his first mate will be able to tell him something. The hold is dark save for a small lamp near the door, but he sees nothing amiss. Behind him, he hears Firouz join the crowd.

"A…dream?" Doubar's voice is cautious. He stares at the darkened hold, at his brother, his crewmates, as if gauging their reality. "I suppose? But it felt _so_ real."

"A nightmare?" Sinbad watches his brother doubtfully. Doubar isn't one for flights of fantasy; he's never been frightened of a mere dream before.

"I was a little boy again," Doubar said slowly, "but smaller than I've ever been, even as a child. There was a man…"

"I had the same dream, captain," Rashid manages to say, though he doesn't raise his head from his hands. In the corner, Salman shudders and nods.

"Three crewmembers, one nightmare?" Sinbad turns to his scientist. "Firouz, is that possible?"

"I suppose it's not beyond the realm of possibility," the inventor says slowly, "but highly implausible."

"Magic, then."

Sinbad and Doubar exchange a speaking glance. "Where's Maeve?" the first mate asks.

Sinbad really doesn't want to wake her if the screams from the crew haven't already, but there's no one else to ask. Nodding slightly, he sheaths his sword and pushes past Rongar and Firouz, heading for the sorceress's little cabin.

Hoping not to startle her, Sinbad is gentle as he pushes the door open. "Maeve?" Inside, her cabin is black as tar. He didn't leave a light when he put her to bed several hours ago, which means she must still be asleep. Of that he's glad, and wishes he didn't have to wake her. Walking the two short steps to her bunk, he reaches down to find her shoulder.

Firouz appears in the doorway and holds up a lantern. The dim golden light makes shadows leap and dance, illuminating very little of the tiny room. But it's enough to show Sinbad a rumpled blanket and empty bunk. Maeve is gone.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Mirk and Midnight Hour**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M (language, sex, violence)  
Setting: Just after Season 1  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

Maeve feels sick. Saliva floods her mouth and she swallows hard, forcing nausea back down. She isn't just trembling but shaking hard, covered in sweat, and even though she knows her ribs are whole and hale, she can't get a good breath. Her nails bite into the palms of her hands; she smells blood before she feels the little pricks of pain. This feeling, this small, immediate hurt, grounds her. Squeezing her fists harder, she concentrates on this familiar, tolerable pain. Slowly the edge of her panic pales as the nightmare, the memory, recedes. Just a dream, she tells herself, though her body disagrees. Just a memory. Not the here-and-now.

She's still shaking, almost as if she's seizing—she has no control over her body's movements. She can't unlock her fists, so she does the only thing she knows she can and squeezes hard, harder, nails biting deep.

"Here now. That's enough of that."

Maeve jerks at the sudden voice. She blinks and squints but sees only a blur, like looking at the sky through water.

"I know. I know." The voice is calm—an older female, but Maeve's panicking mind can't place it. Gentle hands take one of hers and firmly pry open her fist. A warm, damp cloth is placed on her palm, covering the deep, crescent-shaped punctures. "If you must squeeze, squeeze that." The same procedure is applied to her other hand.

"I don't know how you came here," the voice says, "or why. I can see, however, that you've gone far beyond your body's capacity to cope."

Maeve's teeth clack and grind together as she shakes; the pain reverberates through her skull. A high, animalistic whine echoes in her ears and it takes several moments to realize she's making the sound herself.

"Hush now." The firm, gentle hands guide her to lie down. Maeve feels fur against her arms, under her cheek. It's a pelt of some kind, laid before a hearth. She can't tell if she's hot or cold, but the smell and energy of the fire are immensely comforting. "The next few days aren't going to be easy, student of Dim-Dim, but I have faith in you. Try to rest. Whatever demons you're running from, they cannot follow you here."

You're wrong, Maeve thinks as she lies on the pelt next to the fire and shakes. These demons follow her everywhere. She can't escape them; they're inside of her. They _are_ her, and she cannot escape herself. Even changing form, like her poor brother, wouldn't solve her problems. This…sickness…is part of her core self, not her outward appearance. Just as Dermott is still Dermott, she must always be herself and bear these memories. It's her curse, as Dermott's hawk form is his.

"Fight the darkness, Maeve," the voice says, but right now Maeve isn't sure she can. She has no fight left in her and wonders, as unconsciousness drags her under, whether the struggle is truly worth continuing.

* * *

Sinbad and Dermott are frantic.

The hawk blames Sinbad for Maeve's disappearance; Sinbad blames himself but resents the accusation he can feel radiating from that damned bird. The crew searches the entire ship, though Sinbad knew the minute he saw Maeve's empty bunk that she was no longer on the Nomad.

"Could she have sleepwalked?" Firouz posits. "Fallen overboard?"

Sinbad's glare shuts the inventor up. Maeve isn't dead—he can feel it. He doesn't know how. He just does.

"Someone would have noticed her fall." Doubar puts his hand on his little brother's shoulder. "It must be magic of some sort. We'll figure it out."

They have to. They _have_ to. Something inside Sinbad constricts, squeezing painfully. It's hard to breathe when he knows she's in trouble but he can't reach her.

"What do we do, captain?"

Sinbad takes a deep breath, tries to calm his racing mind. Panic won't help anyone, least of all Maeve. He's the captain, and everyone relies on him to know what to do. He knows nothing in this situation…except how to mask his indecision. His crew needs their confident captain. "Maeve spoke of wanting to return to Basra," he says, forcing his chest to expand, to power his booming captain's voice. "We'll try there first. If nothing else, perhaps Cairpra can give us a clue to what's happened. Meanwhile, Firouz, I want you and Rongar to read as much as you can in Maeve's magic books. See if you can find anything—_anything_—relevant."

The inventor and the Moor acquiesce without complaint, though Firouz is well known for his skepticism of magic. They head below to fetch Maeve's books and Sinbad follows as Doubar takes the tiller and calls orders to the other sailors, beginning to shift their course. As dawn paints the sky with pastels he stands in Maeve's cabin, wishing for a clue—just one clue—to what's happened. Maeve can't have left willingly, he tells himself as he looks around the little room. All of her things remain on the ship, including Dermott. She'd never leave her hawk, would she?

Or her sword. It's next to her bunk, encased in its familiar worn leather scabbard. Sinbad kneels and wraps his hand around the hilt, draws the sword from the sheath with a soft hiss of steel.

She knows how to care for her blade and does so diligently, that much is obvious. It's mirror-bright and wickedly sharp. Sinbad tests the edge with his thumb and a thin line of blood blooms against his skin. He traces the intricate decorative knotwork on the sword with a fingertip, shiny blue whorls and curving lines. They draw the eye, lead the gaze in a maze with no end. Sinbad wonders why he's never asked her what these symbols mean. There are so many things he's never asked, so many questions that now seem vitally important. Why wouldn't she sleep? What was she afraid of?

What made her leave Eire in the first place?

Sinbad hefts the broadsword, tests how it feels in his hand. It's perfectly balanced, made of expertly folded steel, and he can feel as he holds it that this is an incredibly expensive weapon. He can also tell that it was not made for a female hand. This isn't terribly surprising, as few women choose to learn the art of swordplay, but it does present yet more questions about Maeve—questions Sinbad doesn't know if he'll ever have answers to. Where did she acquire such a valuable weapon, and who was it originally made for? How much training and effort did it take on her part to learn to use a sword too big and too heavy for her, and why did she choose to do so?

The trunk Queen Nadia gave Maeve early in their adventures sits at the foot of her bunk. Sinbad hesitates for only a moment before carefully sheathing her sword and crossing to the trunk. He lifts the lid, feeling only a moment's guilt. He's not snooping, he tells himself. He's looking for anything that could help him find Maeve. More and more it looks as if those terrible nightmares were sent to the crew to distract them while someone abducted Maeve. It makes more sense than anything else Sinbad has considered, anyway. But then, who took her, and why?

Some of the clothing from the queen has been sold off, but a few pieces remain—fine, thin silk that snags against his rough fingertips when he touches it. In the trunk he also finds a few yards of plain linen cloth, a bone needle, and thread. He already knows that Maeve can sew, has seen her do so on occasion, but it feels incongruous to him just the same.

Sinbad also finds what looks like a journal of Dim-Dim's—he's very familiar with the old man's cramped handwriting. An ivory comb missing two teeth. A cloth pouch he recognizes, where Maeve keeps money, and a leather pouch he doesn't recall seeing before. It's small, the leather very fine and pale and thin. Carefully he eases open the top and pours the contents into his palm.

It's jewelry—which he guesses makes a certain amount of sense. Maeve is a woman, after all. But he can't remember ever seeing her wear these pieces, and that strikes him as odd. She wears her gold torc and sometimes a gold ring of knotwork, nothing else.

Holding each piece up to the light, Sinbad examines the jewelry. There are two gold rings, one sized for a man, one for a woman, with an identical decoration of two hands, a heart, and a crown. The craftsmanship is exquisite; Sinbad has hauled enough cargo from distant lands to know Celtic design and quality when he sees it. Despite being considered barbarians, Maeve's people are known throughout the world for their fine metalwork. The rings shine in the pale, early morning light. These must be her parents' marriage rings, and Sinbad feels a familiar ache in his chest as he turns them in his fingers. He doesn't have even this small reminder of his parents, and when he sees Maeve's he wishes he did.

There's another gold ring with intricate knotwork, sized for a large man. Out of curiosity Sinbad tries it on his right middle finger and it doesn't even come close to fitting. He wonders if even Doubar's fingers would be big enough. There's also a few small, loose red gems—garnets, he supposes, for what would Maeve be doing with rubies? And one last piece, one that turns his expression grim when he sees it.

It's a chain of rough iron, links large enough that they're obviously meant to be functional, not decorative. The ends of the chain are a broken link that fits when Sinbad holds the two ends together. He's seen this sort of thing before, and the implications sicken him. He's holding in his hand a slave collar, sized for a tiny neck—a child's neck.

Why would Maeve have such a thing? Why would she keep it with the beautiful golden rings that obviously hold some personal meaning for her? The links chink together with a dull, heavy sound as Sinbad returns everything to the leather pouch and pulls the drawstring closed again. The collar isn't large and heavy, but it's sturdy enough to subdue a small child, of that he's sure.

But why?

Head spinning with questions he can't answer, Sinbad finishes his search of Maeve's cabin. Firouz and Rongar have her books and the notes she's written as she studies, and there isn't much else in the room. A few candles, a conjuring bowl, some dried herbs and other spellcasting ingredients. Under her mattress, within easy reach were she lying in bed, he finds a dagger. An unstrung bow and quiver of arrows sit in a corner.

Other than the mysterious jewelry, there's nothing curious here, nothing he'd consider unusual for a warrior-sorceress. No clues, nothing to shed light on where she might have gone or why. In some ways he knows less now than he did before he started snooping, as he's unearthed yet more questions and no answers. His gut tightens as he remembers the little collar.

"Maeve," he whispers, clenching fists as empty as the room, "where are you?"

* * *

"Easy now. Easy." The female voice is calm and soothing in Maeve's ears. A strong hand helps raise her head and she swallows reflexively when the rim of a cup touches her lips. The tisane is strong and bitter but she barely tastes it. She's cold, so cold, despite the fire at her back, and her body shakes uncontrollably whether she's awake or asleep. Most of the time she's neither, hovering somewhere between, unconscious of her surroundings but never quite surrendering to her dreams.

"Maeve," the voice calls. "Child, listen to me."

Listening is pain. Everything is pain. She whimpers, muscles exhausted from the shaking. Her head feels like it's being squeezed, her skull somehow shrinking around its contents, the intense pressure excruciating.

"I know, I know it hurts, but try to think. What happened just before you appeared here? What were you doing? Think, Maeve, think hard. Try to remember."

The voice isn't one to be disobeyed, so Maeve tries. She doesn't know where she is, but she feels she knows this voice. It's not much but it's something, and she clings to that wisp of faith. Before the voice, what can she remember?

"D-dreams." Her teeth clack together when she tries to speak; pain bursts like Firouz's exploding sticks in her head. "B-bad dreamsss…" Slowly, slowly the memories play in her mind. Sinbad tricked her into sleep and her fears manifested. She heard again in her mind the screams of the crewmembers she infected with her memory, the nightmare meant only for her but spread like a miasma of pollution, of disease, when she let her guard down and slept. "M-my f-f-fault."

"And what did you do, Maeve? Maeve, listen to me. Hear my voice. Your body is fighting for its life, do you understand? You used a dangerous amount of your life force transporting yourself to me, and I need to know why and how. What did you do?"

Infected them all, that's what she did. Forced them to live what she'd lived, the terror, the pain. A feeling beyond guilt presses against her ribs, her stomach, her soul. And what had she done when she awoke and realized what happened? She ran. She panicked and ran like a child.

The steady hand returns, rests on her head, strokes her sweaty hair. "If you can understand me, child, I have to tell you it's a miracle you survived. That you were able to transport yourself here, that you made it. I don't understand what happened, but that much is clear. You're going to be very sick for a while, but Sinbad is on his way and he may be able to tell me more that will help. Do you hear me, Maeve? Sinbad is coming."

And though she knows this is meant to be comforting, Sinbad is the last person in the world Maeve wants right now. Anger at his trick bubbles in her gut, but even stronger is her shame. She infected his crew, his beloved brother, with her poison. This is unacceptable, unforgiveable. She can't do more than lie here and shake but she knows, somehow, she has to get away. She can't be trusted anymore, can't keep this poison under control.

Yet even as she thinks this, the bitter tisane begins to work. Unwilling but too weak to protest, she sinks into unconsciousness.


End file.
